you're just a shell of your former you
by graceviolets
Summary: Artie says that she'll get used to it. She doesn't want to get used to anything that has to do with that chair. She wants to get used to walking and running and jumping again.


Her arms are aching and her palms are throbbing with pain. Artie says that she'll get used to it. She doesn't want to get used to anything that has to do with that chair. She wants to get used to walking and running and jumping again.

"There you go" the school nurse says calmly, "A band-aid for your blisters."

Quinn watches as the thin orange material covers her angry red wounds but the pain doesn't go away.

"You're fine now" the nurse says, smiling.

Quinn nods and smiles and rolls away.

…

She goes to physical therapy three times a week. In the beginning it mostly about stretching and bending the limbs she still can. It's basic stuff, but she still ends up drenched in sweat afterwards. Three weeks in a hospital bed can really fuck with your physical condition. She remembers how she could do a whole cheerleading routine without getting tired, how she could dance to a ridiculously long performance without breaking a sweat. Now she's handicapped, trapped in her own body.

"You're doing fine, Quinn" the physical therapist says.

She smiles and nods and rolls away.

…

Her doctor prescribes her pain killers, take twice a day, always with a meal. He x-rays her through one of those huge tubes, looking at blurry pictures of her spine and head and organs. He feels the huge bump on her head, shines lights into her eyes and listens to her lungs.

"You're actually doing fine, Ms. Fabray" he tells her.

She smiles and nods and rolls out of the room. Outside, she takes a pill, without the meal, just because she can.

…

"You're not fine, are you?" Puck asks her bluntly.

It's his turn to see her home, his turn to shove the wheelchair into his truck and her into the passenger seat and drive her home. Rachel and Sam and Santana have already done it and he volunteered, it would be rude of her to say no. But now she wishes that she did.

"Sure I am" she says.

"You don't have to be, you know. Being hit by a truck, almost dying, getting paralyzed.."

"I'm not paralyzed" she snaps. "It's temporary."

He doesn't say anything but she can see in his eyes that he doesn't believe her. She can see pity and sympathy in his eye. She hates him for it.

"Just drop me here" she orders him. "I'll get home myself."

"No."

"Let me out."

He doesn't stop and it isn't like she really expected him to.

"You don't have to do this all by yourself" he tells her.

"I'm not. I have like three doctors…"

"Maybe, but they don't seem to be helping with the blisters on your hands."

"I'll get used to it" she says, repeating Artie's words.

"Okay" he says.

"Okay" she echoes.

…

She sees a therapist too, a woman in her fifties with gray hair and bad breath. They talk about fear and Quinn admits to having bad dreams. The woman gets her sleeping pills, take maximum two per night, always with water. She pats Quinn's hand and offers her a biscuit and tells her that she's doing well, under the circumstances. Quinn nods and smiles and rolls away. One blister breaks and leaves a trace of blood on the wheel. It smudges on the therapist's floor, like a trace after her, but no one seems to notice.

…

She has to fill out her Yale form again. She has to check the box with "had special needs" and has to write _wheelchair accessible dorm room _on a line.

"I don't need to do this" she insists to Emma a thousand times.

"Just in case" Emma says cheerily. "If you can walk_, sorry_, when you can walk again, you can just change it back. It's always best to be prepared."

Quinn pictures trying to wheel herself over the cobbled paths of Yale's campus. No, that's unthinkable.

"Quinn, I have to say, you're doing so well" Emma says and Quinn smiles and nods and rolls away.

…

Somehow it's Puck's turn to drive her again. Maybe most of the others have tired of making the detour to her home by now, she's like Haiti, still a wreck but it gets old after a few weeks.

"If you hadn't gotten into Yale before, you sure would now" he says.

"What do you mean?" she snaps.

He turns to her and smiles.

"The Jesus loving cheerleading captain who got pregnant, sings in a Glee Club, helps the homeless, got kicked out by her parents; also got into a car accident and is paralyzed from the waist down. Jeez, you know they eat that shit up, Q!"

She can't help but smile back.

"I'm not bringing the chair to New Haven" she says.

"Why not?"

"It's not part of the dream."

"Neither was getting pregnant, right?"

She ignores him.

"I got into shape once before, I can do it again."

"There's a difference between losing the baby weight and regaining feeling in your legs."

His voice isn't judgmental or critical or anything. It's soft and careful and she hates it. She doesn't want to be pitied anymore.

"Things will work out, Quinn" he comforts her. "Things sucked before, but you got through it."

She stares out of the window.

"I could always give the baby up, I can't hand this problem over to someone else" she mumbles, mimicking him.

"You could try" he mumbles.

"No" she says. "No, I can't."

…

She doesn't dance at nationals. She sits in her chair, beside Artie, and mouths the words. Her head feels mushy thanks to the mixture of painkillers and sleeping pills that are working their way through her system. In some kind of childish last attempt, she did her exercises over and over last night, until her head throbbed and her back ached. She couldn't sleep anyway, the pills don't help anymore. She worries too much. Lights are flashing and music is pumping on stage now and she wants to throw up. Artie takes her hand and squeezes it lightly.

"Quinn, are you okay?" he asks.

She finds his eyes, no pity, no sympathy, just concern. She can deal with concern.

"No" she finally admits.

And then she collapses onto the stage floor. She isn't awake to hear Rachel scream into her microphone or to feel Puck pick her up or for Mr. Schue to call 911.

…

"You need rest" the doctor, a new one, a woman says "and then you'll be…"

"Please don't say it" Quinn cuts her off.

She can't bear to hear that word again. Fine. Fine. Fine. She's not fine, no part of her is fine. The doctor smiles and nods and leaves the room. Quinn watches the ceiling and counts the days until graduation. 14. She's not going to make it. _She's not going to make it._

…

"What are you so afraid of?" Artie asks.

He's the only one who she lets visit. Rachel would only cry and Santana would get closed up and Puck… no, she doesn't want anyone else to come.

"Nothing anymore" she breathes. "I've already failed."

"How can you say that?"

"I can't go to Yale like this, not hurt and broken down. I'm going to stay here, grow old, just like I feared when I got knocked up."

"I'm leaving" he says, "the day I graduate I'm leaving for film school in Sacramento."

"I'm not as strong as you" she whispers.

Artie looks lost for word, she doesn't blame him. He knows what it's like to lose the ability to walk. But he doesn't know what it's like to lose hope.

…

The blisters on her hands heal when she's in the hospital bed. She's not allowed to any physical therapy except when observed by her instructor. The pain pills leave her head cloudy and the new (stronger) sleeping pills make her drowsy. She doesn't think much at all during the two weeks she recovers. Not until he breaks the rules and visits her.

"I don't want to see anyone" she tells him.

"I know, but I wanted to see you, see if you were okay."

She realizes that she's being selfish, that they all must worry about her after what Artie told them.

"I'm fine" she says and almost wants to throw up.

"Yeah, right."

Puck's face isn't full of pity and sympathy now, or no, they probably still are, but there's someone else there too, he looks determined.

"You're doing better, you know what right?"

"Shut up" she mumbles.

"No, it's true. Santana's dad stole your file and you're improving."

"You're lying."

"Do you feel any pain?"

"No, but I'm high on drugs."

"Stop taking them then and feel."

She shrugs and looks away.

"Don't give up" he urges her. "Not yet."

"Graduation's tomorrow" she reminds him. "It's too late. I don't want to wheel myself over that stage."

"I promise you won't have to."

…

He carries her. That's his simple solution. Figgins call their names at the same time and he picks her up and trudges over to the principle. Her spine is hurting but it's not that bad and her head is feeling light without the drugs in her system.

"Give a hand for Quinn Fabray and Noah Puckerman" Figgins tells the crowd.

They cheer her and him and he carries her back to her chair.

"I always keep my promises" he grins.

She rolls her eyes but lets him push her chair to parking lot. She doesn't want to fuck up her hands right away. He leaves her by parents' car.

"62 days, Q" he tells her.

"What?"

"There's 62 days until orientation day at Yale. I checked."

"Right."

"That's a lot of days, Q."

"Is it?"

"Yes, plenty of days."

"Do you promise?" she asks childishly.

"Yes" he says confidently.

And even if he knows nothing about spines or nerves or anything, she believes him.

…

Quinn Fabray takes her first step on the cobbled paths of Yale august 24th 2012. She still has to do heaps of therapy and her legs are still shaky, but she does it. Her mother follows with her bags and a map.

"Where's your dorm, honey?" she asks.

"I think it's over here" she replies.

Her corridor has an elevator, for students in wheelchairs, or for students who are just regaining the strength in their legs. She changed her form two days after graduation, still requesting an elevator but erasing the part about the wheelchair.

"Are you going to be okay?" her mother asks, concerned about boys and sex and parties.

"Yes" Quinn nods. "I'll be fine."

When her mother has left, she picks up her phone and presses two words in a text messages to Puck. _I'm fine. _He replies within seconds; _Told you so._


End file.
